Over a week after the locusts, Ferguson found me. Or I found him.
Too thirsty to be picky, I was drinking from a suspect-looking stream when I heard the slurp of a horse sucking up water. And there he was.
His saddle and bags were still on, though they’d been twisted, and twigs and pine needles had caught in the tack, evidence of his rubbing against trees.
“You poor creature. I’m sorry.” Once he was hitched to a tree, I liberated some oats and let him feast. He allowed me to unsaddle him without complaint. I brushed him down as best I could, then devoured half of the rations I’d left in my bag, eating until my stomach ached with being so full.
When we were both finished eating and drinking, I wanted so much to saddle him again and gallop all the way back to the castle, but that wouldn’t be fair to Ferguson. I settled for resting the saddle and tack on him, and leading him up the mountain.
Only after he’d had a good night of rest did I tighten the straps and let him carry me. Not walking was bliss.
It wasn’t long before we reached the railroad tracks that had once run between the Indigo Kingdom and Liadia.
“Wilhelmina?” The voice came from behind me, and I spun.
Only trees and dirt and birds waited.
“Wilhelmina.”
Ferguson’s ears twitched; he heard it, too.
We’d left the wraithland—the changed wraithland—behind before climbing the mountains. Nevertheless, the feeling of something watching me grew stronger in the woods.
“Wilhelmina.” It sounded like the wind, all breathy and suggestive, but there shouldn’t be anything here.
“The wraithland is back there!” Like reminding it of its place would do any good. I kicked Ferguson into a gallop up the twisting mountain road.
“Wilhemina!”
“Go back to sleep! Go to sleep, whatever you are!” I cried. If the command had any effect, I couldn’t tell.
I hunched over Ferguson’s neck to make myself smaller as he worked into a gallop. The stench of wraith pushed at us from behind, making my stomach roll in time with the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.
“Wilhelmina!” The voice chased us faster. Sweat on Ferguson’s flanks grew into a stinking lather. He panted; I could feel the expansion of his ribs beneath my legs.
We ran. Whenever I peeked up, I caught glimpses of a castle rising above the trees. The road cut its way upward. All we had to do was get there.
“Wilhelmina!”
I kicked Ferguson harder, but it wasn’t necessary. He gave another burst of speed at the blast of wraith stench. A finger of white mist crept behind us, relentless as it filled the width of the road and navigated the curves with ease. Steel screeched: the railroad tracks bent where the wraith touched.
Light flared ahead as the sun began to set behind me. The wraith screamed and called out my name again, but when I looked over my shoulder, the mist was retreating down the mountainside, leaving only the twisted metal of railroad tracks to mark where it had been.
What had scared it? What could scare wraith?
Above, the light flared again, and I laughed.
Mirrors.
A hundred mirrors hung on West Pass Watch; the setting sun had made them glow like fire.
Giddy, weary, and aching all over, I urged Ferguson to slow as we approached the castle. I traded Black Knife’s mask for the cap to hide my braids, still piled up on top of my head from the night I left Skyvale.
Skyvale. I’d see Melanie again. The other Ospreys. I’d get a bath. A delirious giggle escaped me. I’d made it out of the wraithland.
As my horse trotted into the lower bailey, several men in Indigo Army uniforms came out to meet me.
One glanced at a sheet of paper. “Will? William Cole?”
“Yes, sir.” I dismounted when Ferguson came to a stop. “Where’s the caravan?”
The lead man was tall, sharp featured, and vaguely familiar, though I was certain I hadn’t seen him before.
“The caravan is gone, son. They left four days ago.”
I let my shoulders slump. Now I’d have to walk by myself, without the protection the caravan offered.
“I’m Herman Pierce, House of the Dragon, Lord of West Pass Watch.” He didn’t offer his hand. Of course. I was just a lowly hired guard. “You will address me with ‘Your Highness.’ Is that clear?”
He was one of the king’s younger brothers—Tobiah’s uncle.
“Yes, Your Highness.” I dropped my face, taking note of the number of men surrounding us, the fading sunlight, and a silhouetted figure in the doorway to the barracks. My heart thumped. Was he here? Had he come?
“I’m going to take you where we can talk about what happened, why you went down the mountains, and why you came running back up like the very wraith itself was chasing you.”
Hadn’t he heard the voice?
“I’m also sending a letter to the caravan master requesting that you never work another job,” he said. “And when I send requests, they’re taken as orders.”
I heaved a sigh as though I actually cared. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Your employer sent someone to collect you. He got here mighty fast. I’d have let you stew here for a while.”
I glanced toward the silhouette in the doorway again. The slim figure wasn’t tall enough to be Black Knife. My heart sank.
He strode toward us, mountain lion grace and mountain lion eyes.
Patrick Lien.